


Brings a Blush to the Cheek

by 221b_hound



Series: 221bMerrick [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221bMerrick, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Route 91, Sherlock obsessing over John's arse, not quite bus sex, sex in a chain store loo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are sitting at the back of an overheated bus. The seat is really too warm. It's making John wriggle about a bit. It's making Sherlock think rather obsessively about John's arse. Soon there is a crisis...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brings a Blush to the Cheek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This is the first fic in what may be a series - the 221bMerricks. During my recent sojourn in London, Atlinmerrick and I would start to throw prompts at each other - and then we thought it might be fun if we both wrote stories inspired by the *same* prompt. There's no guarantee that we'll write them in any kind of synchronous order, but here, at least, is the first fic inspired by a prompt. 
> 
> The prompt? Atlin and I were in the back seat of the 91 bus one day, noting how extremely HOT the damned thing was. This of course led to talk of what would happen if John and Sherlock sat at the back of this bus, the seat horribly overheated by the engine, and got their own butts thoroughly toasty warm...

“I know it’s winter,” complained John, “But Jesus. It’s a bit much.” He shifted uncomfortably on the back seat of the bus.

Sherlock glanced at John’s grimace of discomfort. He wasn’t entirely comfortable himself, with the heat that radiated into the seat through the engine and seemed to infuse the ill-padded bench with enough heat to fry a damned egg on the upholstery.

“I wanted to get a cab,” he said, crisp tone barely disguising the sulk.

John sighed and hunkered down in the seat, then slid further down, trying to keep his back against the heat while getting his crotch further away from it. "Your cab-summoning mojo -" here Sherlock rolled his eyes "- wasn't working today, and it’s practically _sleeting._ It’s fucking _freezing_ out there. I didn't plan to _walk_ home.”

“It’s hardly sleeting John,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowed, “And at least the Tube would have taken us closer to Baker Street.”

“The nearest station was a fifteen minute walk away, and the bus was _right there_.” John folded his arms and scowled, then unfolded them, because that, too, was making him too hot in the mini sauna that was the back of the Number 91 bus.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and deduced.

John scowled at the ceiling and let him.

 _He still feels the cold,_ Sherlock observed. _Makes the old wounds ache, including the leg – the psychosomatic limp was related to a genuine injury after all, though earlier than the wound that brought him to me. He misses the heat of the Middle East, though not much else about it. Explains all those jumpers, I suppose. All the damned fidgeting. He likes the heat, so what…?. Ah. Complaint is less about the heat in general and more that it’s… oh._

Then, for reasons best known to himself, Sherlock folded his arms, then unfolded them, then tugged off his gloves and touched his own nose.

Those reasons, which take longer to tell than for him to conclude, were as follows.

Although it was not sleeting, it was in fact _bitching_ cold, with a biting, gusty wind that rendered umbrellas useless (and Sherlock rather hoped Mycroft was caught out in it, having got them into this frightful though brief case in the first place, out in that godawful weather at Parkland Walk).

Sherlock’s hair was a bedraggled mess. His fingers were cold even through the gloves. His ears were cold. His _nose_ was cold. And his John was cold and wet and miserable.

And sitting right beside his cold, wet, miserable John, Sherlock was very aware that the heat scorching up through the back seat was making his own backside hot. And also his scrotum. Sherlock would give points for the warming of his arse on this miserable day, even if it was on the high side of comfortable, but an overheated scrotum was no picnic - and John didn’t have nearly as much insulation in the form of… rear endage as Sherlock did.

Sherlock was very aware that John liked Sherlock’s arse immensely. He certainly paid a lot of attention to it – with much gazing, patting and fondling (with that ever-present lip-licking) when opportunity allowed. Other kinds of licking, along with kissing, biting, fingering and fucking when even _better_ opportunity allowed.

At this point in his flow of thoughts, Sherlock had wriggled a little on the seat, a gesture not primarily due to the heat of the _bus_.

Sherlock’s mind continued on its singular track.

Sherlock was equally fond of John’s arse. Those two pert handfuls. Sherlock had been delighted to find his large hands were a perfect fit for each pale cheek of John’s bum. He’d found himself compulsively wrapping his hands around that arse and squeezing when the impulse took him. He loved it when, the first time he’d succumbed to the urge, John had gasped and then pushed back into his grip; continued to push back as Sherlock kneaded the lovely shape, extended his fingers down to the creases of John’s legs, then inward to brush against his crease, which only made John make a brilliant, stifled noise and push harder.

Generally, terrific sex followed such grabby moments. At the very least, absolutely terrific kissing. No-one had been more surprised than Sherlock to find that, once woken from its slumber, Sherlock's libido was as extravagent as everything else about the man.

Now that Sherlock was thinking about John's grabable arse, he was finding it hard to think about anything else. John's arse, which John had complained was being frozen off only minutes ago, was currently wriggling around on a bus seat, trying to get more comfortable. Was probably even now turning a rosy pink in the heat. Was warm and inviting and kissable, though the heat was certainly doing less good to John's own scrotum.

Of which Sherlock was also fond. Delicate and soft, a good shape and size to fit into Sherlock's mouth to be gently suckled. John shaved there sometimes, because Sherlock enjoyed suckling them so much, though was much less fond of pubic hair in his teeth, even if it was John's.

And thinking of John's shaved, perfect balls (and how they drew up tight against John's body as he lay, legs spread, while Sherlock nuzzled and licked and softly sucked at him and John mewled his pleasure and appreciation) led inevitably to Sherlock thinking about John's cock. Long and plump when at ease, and wonderful to fondle and stroke as it swelled in Sherlock’s palm; and a positive _feast_ when at attention, filling Sherlock's hungry mouth and body just as John himself filled Sherlock's hungry heart.

And here was his John and his John’s lovely arse and delicate bollocks and beautiful cock getting all overheated.

Not unlike Sherlock's overheated libido at this point.

This was when Sherlock became aware that his trousers were feeling alarmingly tight, though the Belstaff hid the evidence,

And it was at about this juncture that the gloves were removed, and Sherlock pressed his chilled hands to his chillier nose. It had started as an honest attempt at distraction.

It failed spectacularly.

He tried to bring his thoughts to more prudent territory, but he only backtracked as far as John's bottom.

John’s bum, all warm and delectably pink.

 _Nice handfuls_ of toasty warm bum.

Lovely, biteable, kissable bum.

_Ommm. Mmmm. Nnnmmm._

Perfect for Sherlock to press his chilled face against, to burrow lavishly into, to warm up lips and nose and cheeks while kissing and nibbling and mouthing (because Sherlock really did like wrapping mouth hands and lips around that plump and tempting flesh that was obviously right now positively and literally [and also metaphorically] _hot_.)

On a roll now, Sherlock’s imagination went further. The mental licking and nibbling, and now blowing cool puffs of air onto sensitive skin, had moved down to John’s parted legs to make sure the overheating was not going to cause a problem for John's _other_ parts. Sherlock mentally cooled down John’s exquisite shorn bollocks with a kiss. A lick. A bit of a suck

_God._

**_God._ **

John’s expression, on seeing Sherlock’s expression, grew alarmed, so when Sherlock lurched to his feet and grabbed John by the hand to drag him off the bus, John went without protest, wondering what the emergency was.

Sherlock dragged John straight into the Pret a Manger he’d seen from the window. Through the front door, past all the tables and the counter, towards the loo.

“Medical emergency,” Sherlock said in a strangled voice, “It’s all right. He’s a doctor.”

And John began to suspect exactly what kind of emergency it was as Sherlock bundled him onto the quite roomy facilities, slammed the door shut, locked it and then turned to pull John into a ravenous kiss.

For an insane second, John considered protesting, but then Sherlock shoved his hands down the back of John’s jeans, squeezed his bum, and ground his crotch against John’s.

“God,” said Sherlock, unable for the moment to articulate any other thought. He had plenty of other thoughts though.

John was sort of giggling as Sherlock pulled back and with superhuman speed and efficiency, popped John’s jeans button, dragged down the zip and then pulled both jeans and pants down to John’s ankles.

John’s happy laughter didn’t abate as Sherlock turned him so John could brace himself on the wall.

It abated a little when Sherlock buried his face in John’s toast warm and indeed quite lusciously pink arse and moaned. This was partly because Sherlock’s cold nose was a bit of a rude shock – but mostly because John’s breathing had gone heavy and hard, and he jutted his backside out so that Sherlock could get on with the kissing and biting and licking (and nibbling and mouthing) he’d been so keen to get on with.

John spread his legs as best he could with his pants around his ankles, and bit his own bicep to keep the noise down and Sherlock rimmed him with very vocal (though muffled) pleasure. John clamped his thighs together again shortly after that, while Sherlock frotted himself to completion between his love’s wonderful legs that deserved their own sonnets.

And finally, Sherlock turned John around again, and John bumped his head against the wall, hard, only once, when Sherlock swallowed his cock down to the root, fondled his tightening balls and sucked him until he came with a cry that he covered by biting on his own wrist.

After they cleaned up the spills, readjusted their clothing, grinned smugly at each other, and flushed the loo for appearance’s sake, the escape was swift, though slightly awkward – partly because the three women serving at the counter just smiled indulgently at them and waved as they ran past.

Fortunately, they’d leapt off the bus quite near King’s Cross, and were able to easily get the Tube to Baker Street, where they jumped into a shower together, and discovered that just _thinking_ about their adventure at Pret got them revved up again. Now that they were happily in the company of lube once more, they promptly got sweaty and sticky all over again.

Which is why, to this day, Sherlock and John have an obscure affection for the 91 bus; and for the Pret a Manger there on the Euston Road.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful Atlin, powering away on her stories for her upcoming [The Day They Met actual and for real book ](http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sherlock-Holmes-John-Watson-Partnership/dp/1780927207) has found time to put this prompt into two lovely little Minutiae in [chapter 56](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/5732375).


End file.
